Jane Yeh

In our house, all the clocks are turned off and the mirrors Don’t work. We sit like bread in a stay-fresh wrapper, Keep ourselves to our selves. Sometimes the speeches Are so beautiful it hurts. On the porch where we can’t be Seen to smile, the honeysuckle meshes with silent Weeds. We rock back and forth, back and forth in our long Black dresses. Mosquitoes taste our blood and find it good. Inside, candles are lit every night and keep going Until they burn themselves down. We kiss our fingers To our lips like Italians, promise we’ll never look back. Whip-poor-will. When the doorbell rings we don’t answer. In winter, the fur grows long on the horses and the ice Grows long on the eaves. We sleep in the same bed Like good animals, braid our hair together, tailor Our limbs to fit.Conspiracy of wood.